Last night you came into my house,
the smell of incense faintly covered the sweet smell of pot smoke.
You collapsed next to me, taking your time with comforting yourself
before even acknowledging my presence.

I took your hands in mine
tracing the lines of your palm
it was if I could see your future, our future.
The silence begins to deafen me.

You tell me that you are afraid, finally.
You say that you are afraid to give me your heart.
I am afraid to hold it bloody and beating in my hands.
You are afraid that I will not tend to it like we both know I should.
I am afraid that I'll forever be scarred by its beating, growing fainter every day.
You are afraid that I'll kill you.
I am afraid that you'll kill me.